


Polarize

by MissjuliaMiriam



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (not between Dorian and Lavellan!), Alternate Universe - Canon, Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang 2015, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 09:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5328866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissjuliaMiriam/pseuds/MissjuliaMiriam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"That is not my name."</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Lavellan, once a slave in Tevinter, now Inquisitor, re-encounters his past. </p><p> </p><p>(Written for the 2015 Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang put on by the dragonagebb Tumblr.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Polarize

**Author's Note:**

> So, here's my contribution to the DABB! I signed up pretty last-minute and was doing this in the middle of end-of-term and NaNoWriMo, so it was a bit of work to get this written, but written it is. I had fun! Thank you muchly to the artist for her lovely work in creating the playlist that this was inspired by.
> 
>  
> 
> [Here is a link to the playlist! Go listen to it!](http://8tracks.com/conreeaght/stars-from-dark-skies-dragon-age-pavellan-fanmix)

_But we were younger then_   
_And now we're not_   
_And if there was a plan made_   
_Then we forgot about it  
_               All That I Want - Dawn Golden

 

_"Aias," Dorian decides, looking down at the pretty slave that kneels before him. Elven, around Dorian's own age, but youthful and small in the way that elves are; he has dark skin and eyes of a clear, pale grey, and the cropped hair atop his head is black, in loose curls that fall just above the tapered points of his ears. "That seems like a good name."_

_"If you give a slave a warrior's name, you may not see much peace with him," Alexius warns, but he does so indulgently._

_"I don't mind," Dorian says, and grins brightly at his new patron. "Peace is boring."_

 

“That is not my name," Lavellan says through gritted teeth, and looks up with stormy grey eyes at the mage who had just called him Aias, as if they were still in Tevinter, as if nothing had changed.

“Oh – I'm... I'm sorry. Lavellan.”

“What do you want, Dorian?” Lavellan asks.

“I, ah – I was only hoping that we might talk,” Dorian says, and laces his hands behind his back. The motion is such a familiar display of discomfort that something clenches inside Lavellan. “It's been some weeks since Redcliffe, and I know--”

“You struggled more with what was seen and done there than I did,” Lavellan says. “If you need someone to counsel you in your grief for Felix, you've come to the wrong place.”

“You cared for him too!”

“No,” Lavellan snaps, harsh. “I never did. I was a slave, Dorian. I had no right to care for anyone.”

Dorian looks at him, hurt in his eyes. “You cared for me.”

Lavellan sighs. “You were kind to me.”

“Then why do you avoid me?” Dorian asks, and he reaches out.

Lavellan flinches away, unable to stop himself, and then hates, hates, hates the weakness the movement betrays. “Because you are a symbol of the past I have never been able to escape,” he says, quietly. “I escaped. And some days, I still don't believe it. I fight every day to forget, to unlearn all the things that slavery taught me. Mostly I fail. And now you threaten to drag me back into the pit that I have clawed my way out of. I cannot be around you, Dorian.”

Dorian just shakes his head. It's hard, so hard, for Lavellan to look at his face and resist the urge to go to his knees. To see the sadness there and not be crushed by the shame that comes with the knowledge that he created that sadness. This, he thinks, is why he has been avoiding Dorian. Not because he hates him. In fact, Dorian is perhaps the only Tevinter mage that Lavellan bears no anger toward. No, because he did care for him, when Dorian was still his master, but he had run, and he refuses to go back, not even in the smallest of ways.

"Were you in love with me, Dorian?" Lavellan asks, and regrets the question the moment it's out of his mouth.

Dorian just looks at him for a long, long time. It feels like forever, but Lavellan is excruciatingly conscious of every one of his breaths, and there aren't more than twenty. "I wasn't," Dorian says. "You weren't a person to me back then. Now... now you are. I'm sorry."

"If you're sorry," Lavellan says, and turns his face away, "you'll stay away from me."

"I'll try," Dorian says, and Lavellan believes him. But there's a magnetism between them that has always been there, in a way. Back then, to use Dorian's words, it had been a simple fascination of a man with a pretty toy, and a beaten animal with a first taste of kindness on its tongue. Now it's different. Lavellan doesn't know what's going to happen. He doesn't even know if he's afraid.

 

_"Urgh," Dorian says, and flops backward onto his bed. "No chance you've developed a sudden liking for men, eh Felix?"_

_Felix laughs, sitting on the bed beside him. "Unfortunately not, Dorian," he says. "I'm sorry that your apprenticeship is keeping you from the acting in the manner to which you have become accustomed, running rampant among the lads of the Circle."_

_"Oh, well, I suppose I'll just have to live," Dorian sighs._

_"You know, your slave is probably trained in such things, if you wanted."_

_Dorian goes tense, and Felix looks over at him. Dorian's gaze has migrated to the corner of the room, where Aias is kneeling, his head down. He hasn't moved at all, not even a twitch since he placed himself in that position at Dorian's command at least an hour ago. It had, in fact, occurred to Dorian that that was a possibility, but... "I'm not going to do that," Dorian says. "It wouldn't feel right."_

_Felix shrugs. "He's a slave, Dorian. He won't care."_

_"It still wouldn't feel right."_

_"Whatever you want, I suppose," Felix says. "I was only saying, it's not like you have no options, so you really shouldn't complain. You're bringing it on yourself. I bet he's even good."_

_"Doesn't matter," Dorian says, stiffly. "I'm not fucking a slave, Felix. Let it go."_

_"Alright," Felix says, raising his hands defensively. "I hadn't realized you were so sensitive about it. I know you find him pretty, so I just thought..."_

_"I know," Dorian says. "If I were a little different, I'd have had him already. But I like to win my partners. There's something... something distasteful about bedding slaves."_

_"Fair enough. I know some people feel that way."_

_"And I am one of them. Now you know."_

 

Dorian is isolated. Lavellan sees it, regrets it. He knows that Dorian is out of place among the Inquisition; he doesn't have any friends, or even any allies. It's a strange role-reversal, for him to be the man with all the power, watching as Dorian is cowed in subtle, insidious ways. He sees it in the tired slump of the mage's shoulders, in the amount of wine he drinks, in the buckles that aren't done up quite correctly and the hairs that have fallen out of place. These are things Lavellan shouldn't notice, he knows, but he spent too many years watching Dorian so extremely closely for him to entirely shut off the awareness. He knows every tiny nuance of Dorian's behaviour, and right now that behaviour is telling him that Dorian is miserable, and lonely, and cold at least two thirds of the time.

Finally, one day he cannot stand it any longer, so he goes digging through the ridiculous gifts he's been given by Orlesian lords seeking to curry favour, and he finds a black cloak lined with rabbit's fur that's a few inches too long for him, but should be just about right for Dorian. He brings it down to the library. Dorian looks up as Lavellan approaches, blinks, and fumbles in setting his book down quickly enough to receive the cloak which Lavellan shoves into his arms.

"I can't bear to watch you shiver any more," Lavellan says.

"I would never lower myself to shivering," Dorian says, clearly on autopilot, unstable."I can see the tension in your shoulders," Lavellan says, and he reaches out to brush his fingers against the bare skin that peeks through Dorian's leathers. The muscles there are tense, as always; Dorian is right, he doesn't shiver, but he shows the chill in other ways. "Wear the cloak, Dorian."

"I wasn't aware you watched me closely enough to notice that I was cold," Dorian says, quietly, but he slips the cloak over his shoulders, and the tension leaks out of him as the soft fabric settles around him. The cloak has been in Lavellan's arms; it must be warm from his body.

"I can't not," Lavellan says. "I can't. Just... wear the cloak."

Dorian nods, and he watches Lavellan go silently. The next morning, Lavellan comes down to the war room, and Leliana hands him a note with "Benigne" written on it in familiar graceful cursive. Lavellan crushes the parchment in his fist, and he turns to their work. Leliana looks at him with knowing eyes, but she doesn't say anything; she understands him, by now. She knows some of his past. They all do - after the incident with Alexius, the entire inner circle knows a little bit about Lavellan's past as a slave in Tevinter, and a few of them even know that Dorian had been his master. Leliana is the only one who knows that Dorian was his master for more than five years, that though they had not been close as two people who were people could be, they’d had a better relationship than many masters and their slaves. That even after all this time, Lavellan still knows Dorian.

Lavellan doesn't know what to do, in all honesty. He doesn't have a confidant in the Inquisition, though Leliana has so far kept his secrets. Still, he doesn't entirely trust her not to use them against him if it becomes beneficial for her to do so. He certainly doesn't trust Cullen, who was a Templar and is human, everything Lavellan's entire life has taught him not to trust. Josephine is gentle and kind, but he doesn't think he trusts her quite yet either. As for the rest, well. Sera dislikes him for being too "elfy", Solas is a shifty bastard and condescending besides, The Iron Bull is straight up unnerving, Varric is too eager for a story to tell, and all the rest are human or nobles or both. Lavellan can't trust anyone; he doesn't want to trust anyone. And all that means is that he doesn't have anyone to talk to about whether or not he's going to attempt to build trust with Dorian - or, for that matter, anyone else. There's no one whose judgement he knows he can trust, so he's stuck relying on his own, and his own judgement is telling him to fuck off back into the woods as fast as his feet can carry him, like any smart Dalish would.

"What a fucking mess," Lavellan mutters to himself, looking at the War Table. His advisors all nod, as if he were talking about the state of southern Thedas, which he may as well have been.

"It'll get better," Josephine says, and lays one small hand on Lavellan's arm. "Everything will sort itself out in time."

"I appreciate that you think so," Lavellan sighs, and then he points at a marker, and the council carries on.

 

_Aias sighs and leans into Dorian's leg as he strokes his fingers through the elf's short-cropped hair, his other hand holding a book. It's a quiet evening, and sometimes his Master likes to do this – have a little bit of affectionate contact, especially when Aias has been good. And he was good today, Master said so. He'd cooked a good meal, and he'd timed the pouring of a bath particularly well, much to Master's pleasure._

_Dorian is the best Master Aias has ever had. Dorian has given him a name that is  not 'slave' or 'rabbit' or 'slut', he doesn't beat him or rape him, and he isn't demanding or harsh. At worst his punishments range to kneeling until Aias loses feeling in his legs, or missing a few meals - that's not bad at all. Aias has had worse. Much, much worse. And on nights like these, when all his Master wants is someone to touch who won't ask anything in return, or question him, well, these are the best nights of all. Aias knows it is dangerous to love a Master, but he maybe loves Dorian. Just a little. He finds himself bereft on the evenings that Dorian spends out, and during the long afternoons when Dorian is off with Master Alexius, researching. He wishes there was more he could do on the days that Dorian gets letters from his family, because that always makes his Master angry and sad, and Aias can't do anything for him._

_Aias sighs again, and leans further into Dorian. It makes his Master chuckle, and Aias looks up at him, just a glance, before he returns his gaze to his knees. Dorian tightens his hand in Aias's hair a little, and says, "Something you want, pet?"_

_Aias shakes his head. "No, Master."_

_"Are you comfortable?"_

_Aias shivers a little with pleasure. "Oh, yes, Master. Thank you."_

_Dorian hums. "Go make a pot of tea. When you come back, bring a cushion for yourself to kneel on. You've done well today."_

_"Thank you, Master," Aias says, and waits until Dorian removes his hand from his hair to rise and follow the order. He's naked this evening; this is often his Master's preference, and he doesn't mind the covetous eyes so much now that he knows that Dorian has no intention of following through. He doesn't entirely know why Dorian refrains; the truth is that Aias wouldn't mind so much. Dorian has male lovers, and Aias doesn't think Dorian would hurt him intentionally. Still, he thinks, pouring the hot water carefully, it's probably for the best. Aias knows enough to know that Masters who use their slaves for pleasure are uniformly worse men than those who don't, and he is grateful that Dorian is in the latter class._

_When he returns with tea and the cushion, Dorian smiles and gestures Aias close, has him set the tea on a side table and then strokes a reverent hand down his slim flank. "You are so beautiful," he says._

_Aias flushes slightly, glad that his dark skin hides it. "Thank you, Master." A little self-consciously, he spreads his legs the tiniest bit, arches his back. Dorian sighs with pleasure, and Aias can see the heat of desire in his eyes, but as usual, Dorian simply pats his knee, and doesn't touch him again except to thread his hands though Aias's hair once more._

 

"Inquisitor!"

Lavellan turns, and raises an eyebrow at Mother Giselle. "Can I help you?"

She nods. "I have a matter of... some delicacy for you to address." She holds up a letter, and explains that it is a note from Dorian's father, the magister Halward Pavus; apparently he has sent a retainer to Redcliffe to meet with his son. Lavellan scowls.

"And what exactly do you want me to do with this? You would have been better off bringing it to Dorian. It's his mail."

She sighs. "The letter requests that Dorian be brought unawares to the meeting - the suggestion is that he would be otherwise... reluctant."

A frisson of tension makes its way up Lavellan's spine. "Right." He takes the letter out of Mother Giselle's hand. "I'll deal with it."

"Thank you, Inquisitor," she says, and she walks away.

As soon as she's gone, Lavellan unfolds the letter and reads it. It makes every part of him feel like he's been slathered with swamp mud, cold and slimy. It is quintessentially Tevinter in all the worst ways, and Lavellan makes his way up to the library, letter in hand. Dorian is exactly where he always is, and Lavellan watches him until he notices and turns with a surprised look on his face.

"Is there something I can do for you, Inquisitor?" he asks, using the address he has adopted in recent weeks. He's noticed, Lavellan thinks, that it makes Lavellan more relaxed to have Dorian verbally deferring to him. Not a surprise to either of them, probably.

"Your father has tried to arrange a meeting on the sly," Lavellan says, and passes the letter to Dorian without further preamble. Dorian reads it, a sort of anguish filling his face, and then he folds the letter back up carefully,creases it along its lines, and sets it down carefully before going to the window and staring out.

Lavellan hesitates, then says, "I can send a messenger. You don't have to go yourself."

Dorian laughs once, a bitter, wretched sound. "No," he says, "I'd best go. Though I'll need an escort, to prevent this retainer from knocking me over the head and dragging me back to Tevinter in a canvas sack."

"Would he do that?" Lavellan asks, blinking.

"Oh yes," Dorian says. "I certainly wouldn't put it past my father, nor anyone he would trust with something like this."

"Well then," Lavellan says. "I'll go with you myself."

Dorian turns, shocked. "You needn't."

"I know I needn't," Lavellan says, and he glances around. There are a few other mages in the library, and he can tell that at least one person is listening in to their conversation. Not uncommon; Lavellan knows that Leliana has people keeping an eye on Dorian, and curiosity is to be expected in the scholarly heart of an organization called 'The Inquisition'. Mindful of that, he switches to Tevene. "I want to do this, Dorian."

Dorian blinks, and replies in the same language. "I can't say I understand why."

"I know. You don't have to. Just accept it."

Dorian swallows, nods. "Yes, Inquisitor."

"Call me Lavellan," he says, and reaches out to touch Dorian's arm. Dorian startles, and then subtly presses back into the touch. "We'll leave in the morning."

"As you wish." Dorian clears his throat. "I'll go pack, then."

Lavellan nods and watches as Dorian walks away, watching the sway of his hips, and wonders when he traded distance for desire.

 

_Aias looks up from the floor when the door swings open, banging loudly against the wall. Dorian stumbles inside, and Aias barely resists the urge to go to him; he knows he'll only get in trouble for offering assistance without prompting. Still, he doesn't think he's ever seen his Master so out-of-sorts. He's drunk, clearly, still clutching a bottle of something much stronger than his preferred red wine, and he smells like something between a distillery and a brothel even from across the room._

_"Come here," Dorian demands, and Aias leaps to obey, crossing the room on bare, silent feet. He accepts the bottle when it's shoved into his hands, and grasps its neck so that he can offer his other arm to his Master. Dorian shoves him away, and Aias steps back, closing the door much more gently than it had been opened, then follows Dorian silently as he stumbles through the room._

_"Put that down and undress me," Dorian says, and Aias snaps to it, placing the bottle in the kitchen and returning to the bedroom, making quick, familiar work of the buckles and ties on Dorian's clothes. Dorian is stonily silent the entire time, his bad mood hanging over both of them like a storm cloud. Aias keeps his head bowed._

_Once Dorian is down to his small clothes, he waves a dismissive hand. "Bring me the bottle," he says, "then get out of my sight."_

_Aias bows and fetches the bottle, then, before he goes, he asks hesitantly, "Master, may I eat before bed?"_

_Dorian's hand snaps out and strikes Aias's cheek before he even realizes the blow is incoming. The backhand is hard enough to throw him to the ground, and from the hot burning sting of it, one of his Master's rings has sliced his cheek. "I said," Dorian says, "get out of my fucking sight!"_

_Aias takes a rough breath and crawls from the room, only coming to his feet once he's out of Dorian's line of sight, one hand coming up to staunch the flow of blood from his face. He goes to bed without eating, and silently, privately, he readjusts his understanding of his and his Master's relationship._

 

Lavellan had had some idea of what to expect from this meeting in Redcliff, namely, Tevinter Magister fuckery. So he's somewhat less surprised than Dorian is when Halward Pavus comes swaggering down the steps like he owns the building and everyone in it. His lack of surprise does not make it any less infuriating, however, and the following conversation only stokes that fury into a roaring blaze in his chest, his vision hazing red at the edges as he listens to Dorian's voice break on the words, "You tried to change me!"

Blood magic is a sick thing in Tevinter. Not because it turns all the mages who use it into abominations, like the Southern Chantry would like for its Circle-bound mages to believe, but because blood magic is the most common cause of death for a slave in Tevinter. Magisters use their slaves like cattle, bleeding them dry for trivial displays of power. Lavellan himself bears the scars of blood-letting from before he had been passed into Dorian's hands. He knows the agony of it, the clawing, dragging terror of having his body cut open, violated to fuel the spells of his Masters. And he's seen first hand what blood magic can do. He doesn't blame Dorian in the least for the grief and horror in his voice, his clenched fists and restless pacing. He knows what Dorian is feeling right now. Intimately.

When the conversation is done, and Dorian is sitting slumped at the bar with Lavellan standing at his side, Lavellan says, "We can go, Dorian."

"I wish things were different," Dorian says, his voice muffled due to his face being buried in his hands. "I wish... I wish things were easier."

"Your father is a fucker, and would be much more tolerable if liberated from his head," Lavellan says bluntly. "But for your sake, I'm not going to kill him - I know he's your father. But we needn't stay. We can ride back to Skyhold right now and you can put this behind you. Let the past be the past. You're free of him now."

"I'll never be free of him," Dorian says, and then he looks up, meets Lavellan's eyes. "Is this how you feel about me?"

Lavellan goes tense, and Dorian immediately begins to apologize, but Lavellan waves him down. "Love and hatred and grief and anger all tangled up?" Lavellan asks, and when Dorian nods, he says, "Yes. It's what any escaped slave feels, probably. Or any escaped slave who'd had a kind master, once. I'll never be able to fully stop caring about you, Dorian, but that doesn't mean I will ever be able to fully forgive you for the wrongs you've done me. The difference is, you did me wrong because you didn't know any better, not because you're a stain on humanity. For that, I can forgive you at least a little. Enough that I care about you more than I resent you. Which is why I'm saying now: you can leave him behind if you want. You're free."

Dorian draws a shaky breath, then he leans forward and he brushes his lips against the long scar on Lavellan's cheek, the one he put there himself not so very many years ago. "Benigne," he says, and then rises while Lavellan is still blinking at him. "Let's get out of here."

 

_Aias wakes to the sound of his Master shouting, demanding, "Marius, what are you doing? Stop!" He rolls out of bed, onto the balls of his feet, and he creeps into the hallway, hiding in the shadows until he can see what's happened. The crackle and flash of magical lightning makes him flinch, and a moment later, a man screams in terror - the result of his own Master's Spirit magic, certainly, but Dorian has never shown any preference for Storm. Aias creeps closer, close enough to see that Dorian is facing off against four men, one of whom is on his knees. The others are two who are clear mages, in robes and bearing staffs, and the last, hanging back, is in Templar plate, the flaming sword clear on his breast, his sword drawn._

_Aias hangs back, knowing that he won't be able to do anything for his master. He has magic of his own, but only small, intuitive things - enough to keep a bath warm or heat a pot of tea. He'd be nothing but a hindrance in the kind of mages' duel that Dorian is embroiled in, and he'd certainly only be fodder for the Templar's blade. Aias doesn't hate his Master, but he's not loyal enough to throw himself in front of a blade to spare Dorian. And the question of what they're doing here is still unanswered._

_"Enough!" Dorian shouts, and casts a small flame, enough to give himself some space, though he's clearly restraining himself, trying not to set his own apartment on fire. "Tell me what this is about!"_

_"Your father wants you home," one of the mages sneers. "You've embarrassed him enough."_

_"My father wouldn't arrange for my kidnapping!"_

_"Clearly you're wrong about that," the mage says, and then Dorian catches him with a spirit bolt that knocks him unconscious. The man who had been struck by the fear spell has stumbled back to his feet, and for a moment Aias thinks that his Master will win the fight._

_And then, from behind them, the Templar snaps, "Back!" The two conscious mages leap away, and the Templar brings his sword to bear, brilliant white light flaring around him. Dorian goes down like a sack of bricks, hitting the floor hard, the glowing Spirit magic around his hands blinking out even as the light fades. The Smite, for that was surely what it was, was powerful enough that Aias can feel the edges of it even from a distance. Both of the enemy mages sway, and the one who had taken the fear spell turns to snarl at the Templar. "Be more careful!" he snaps. "You got us too, and if he'd stayed conscious we'd have been fucked."_

_The Templar shrugs. "You think I give a shit? Tie him up and dose him."_

_Aias hesitates, watching as the unscathed mage steps toward Dorian, the one still rank with fear-sweat going to drag their unconscious compatriot up from the ground, and then his years of slavery remind him that he has a duty to his Master. So he gives a cry and leaps from the shadows, reaching with hands made into claws for the eyes of the mage who's now bent over Dorian. The man swears, gestures, and the world goes white as lightning courses through Aias's body, leaving him prone and shaking on the ground._

_"Fucking knife-ear," the mage says, and comes over to kick Aias in the ribs, rolling him over onto his back. "This must be baby Pavus's slut."_

_"Sure enough," the Templar agrees, coming over to look down at Aias._

_"Can we kill him?" the mage asks. The breath rushes out of Aias's chest, and his eyes fix on the still-bared blade of the Templar's sword, gleaming in the low light. There are only a few candles lit in the apartment, enough to make shadows of all of the kidnappers' faces._

_"No point," the Templar says. "If he's a pleasure-slave he'll be too broken and useless to take care of himself; he'll starve to death in a week or so."_

_The mage nods. "Shame not to make use of him while we have the chance."_

_The Templar makes a sound of disgust. "Do whatever you want. I'm taking Pavus to the meet-up point, and if you're not with me, I'll be taking your share of the reward with me when I leave."_

_"Hey!" the mage protests, but quails when the Templar turns his gaze on him. "Fine. I'll just go dose him."_

_"Shock the elf again," the Templar commands, "or he might come after us."_

_"Fine," the mage says, again, and the world becomes pain, Aias's back arching hard against the floor - and then nothing._

 

Lavellan lets Dorian go off to recenter himself when they return to Skyhold, but he only waits a few hours before tracking him down. He finds him in the library, watching birds through the window, and he waits, knowing that Dorian can tell he's there.

Finally, Dorian says, "I don't know if I can forgive him."

"What exactly did he do?"

Dorian swallows, turns to face him. "I wouldn't put on a show, marry the girl, continue the bloodline. I couldn't bear to pretend."

"He hired a Templar to kidnap you in the middle of the night because of your sexual preference?" Lavellan asks, incredulous. "That seems absurd, Dorian."

"It was more my insistence on living my own life, I think," Dorian says, bitter. "And... and because of you."

"What the fuck did I have to do with it?"

"There were rumours about us," Dorian says. "That I'd taken you for a lover."

"I was a slave," Lavellan reminds him. "You wouldn't be the first to use a slave in that way."

"No," Dorian says. "A lover. People were saying that I was in love with you, that I was going to free you so that we could live some sort of... idyllic life together. And, of course, if I took a male elven ex-slave as my companion, I would never be able to marry Livia Herathinos."

Lavellan stares. Then he rolls his eyes so hard that it actually makes his head hurt. "You wouldn't even fuck me, Dorian. Where the hell did they get that idea?"

Dorian shrugs, but he looks more amused than heartbroken now. "The Tevinter nobility loves gossip almost more than it loves blood magic and the exploitation of the lower classes."

"Right," Lavellan snorts. He thinks about it, the passionate affair that had been imagined between himself and Dorian, and can't help but laugh. "That would never have happened."

Dorian makes a low noise, and when Lavellan looks at him, he has a surprisingly hurt look on his face. "You find me that unappealing?" he asks.

"Dorian," Lavellan says, startled.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have - I know you couldn't see me that way. Not back then and certainly not now. You've made that very clear. I do apologize," Dorian says, clearly rambling.

Lavellan stares at him blankly until he seems to be finished, and then says, "Dorian. Do you want me?"

He clears his throat. "Well, I. That is. Yes. Yes, I do want you. But I understand--"

"You don't understand anything," Lavellan says. "You never have." Then he steps close, and he reaches up to grab a fistful of Dorian's hair. Dorian gasps, and Lavellan says, "If we do this, it'll be on my terms. Is that understood?"

Dorian nods, as much as he can with Lavellan's grip still hard in his hair. "Yes," he says, a bit breathless, eager, wanting. "Yes."

Lavellan pulls his head down, and Dorian comes easily, until he's stooped enough to meet Lavellan's lips in a kiss. A kiss that has been a long time in coming - years, maybe. Lavellan doesn't know when they stepped onto the path to this, but it has felt inevitable for a long time. It feels inevitable now. He's not surprised, really, that Dorian wants him. He's not blind, after all. But the sweetness in Dorian's kiss is a surprise. It's not the kind of open-flame sexuality that he'd expected from Dorian; there's none of the bite, the spice. Dorian is eager and hungry and so pliable, and he bends beneath Lavellan's hand and submits beneath the press of his lips. After a long minute, Lavellan pulls away, releasing Dorian and stepping back so that they're touching, and watches with a sort of deep satisfaction as Dorian takes an unconscious half-step forward, looking for more.

"Not here," Lavellan says, as  he's conscious that watchers abound. "And not now. You need to give this some thought, Dorian, and so do I. Right now, what's between us is little more than fantasy; if we want to make it real we have to make it real. Do you understand?"

Dorian hesitates, then nods. "I understand," he says. "May I come to your quarters, later?"

"Yes," Lavellan says. "We'll talk, and then... we'll see."

 

_Aias wakes in agony, every muscle of his body aching and tense. His hands shake, and the weakness in his legs makes it nearly impossible to get to his feet, but he manages it. And then he looks around at the apartment, sees the furniture skewed out of place, remembers what the Templar had said, and realizes that his Master is not coming back - or at least, not for a long time._

_He occupies the apartment for a few days, but he knows he can't stay there forever. For one, he will definitely run out of food eventually, and though he rummages through all the hiding places, he only comes up with what could be considered a modest amount of money. However, he also finds a ring that bears the seal of House Pavus, and with that in hand, he hunts down ink and paper. Soon enough, he has forged a believable letter from Dorian, complete with a false signature recreated flawlessly after some practice on scrap paper. With that and the seal, he's in better shape. Further preparations come in the form of a bath and a change of clothes, a pack of preservable foods, and a slightly stale elfroot potion that stills the tremors in his hands._

_He sets out the next morning, his pack on his back. A story about running an errand for his master and a flash of the ring is enough to get him out of Minrathous, and then he's on the road. He can hardly believe it. This, he decides, has to have been the easiest escape a slave ever made. Then again, he doesn't know many other slaves, and none that have escaped. He supposes he can hunt around for stories once he gets out of the Imperium._

_Of course, he still has to be careful on the road. A few times he has to bring out the letter when the seal isn't enough. And, of course, there are slavers, who are generally less than scrupulous. At times he opts simply to sleep in the bushes off the Imperial Highway rather than risk the road overnight. He sleeps rough all the time, of course - he doesn't have the coin for a bed in even the shabbiest inn. But sometimes there are merchant caravans that are willing to let him warm his bare feet by their fire, and travel with him for a few days._

_It takes him weeks to make his slow way out of the Imperium. And once he crosses the border into Nevarra, he realizes he has no idea what he's going to do. He doesn't want to go live in some alienage, because that's a good way to end up back in slavery. The humans and the elves will see the marks of it on him easily enough: he still flinches like a slave, and there are scars and slave tattoos and brands on his body that will be with him forever. But he doesn't know how to find the Dalish, and he doesn't know if they'd take a poor mage who only barely speaks Common and is only literate in Tevene._

_He finds himself missing Dorian as he turns east into the Free Marches. He misses Dorian's hands, the curve of his moustache, his voice. His kindnesses, and even his cruelties. Different than the cruelties of the road; his were the cruelties of a young man with a short temper and no care for the feelings of a slave. He knows it's wrong to feel this way, to be so forgiving, but he can't muster any anger. Not yet. He knows it'll come with time, but for the moment, he relishes the ability to miss the Master that he had loved, if only in a small and secret way._

 

Lavellan is waiting when Dorian knocks on his door, and he calls him in, calm and steady. He's spent the last few hours considering this, making a decision about this thing that lies between them. But before he speaks his own mind, he wants to hear Dorian's thoughts.

"Tell me," Lavellan says, as Dorian comes right into his space, reaching out to place a warm hand on his hip.

Dorian smiles. "I've had to rethink everything I ever thought I knew since I left the Imperium," he says. "And I've come to realize that my beliefs about slavery are... less than progressive. I know I can be a better man. I believe you can help me be a better man. But I don't expect you to do the work for me."

"Good," Lavellan says, and presses a kiss in reward to the underside of Dorian's jaw, then leans back again. "I wouldn't have, anyway. What else?"

"I was attracted to you, back then, but I'm glad I abstained. It would have been wrong. It would have been rape. You weren't capable of consent then, not with me. But now is different."

"Now is different," Lavellan agrees. "Anything else?"

"I could love you," Dorian says. "This... whatever this is, that we're starting. I don't want it to be what I had with other men in Tevinter. That never meant anything. It was just... just sex, just a release, just fun. This already means more to me than that, and I don't believe I can be flippant about it."

Lavellan nods. "We have both come far from who we were when we were together in Tevinter," he says. "But we were shaped by what we once were, and we can't forget that."

"I don't want to," Dorian admits. "You were maybe the only person in Tevinter who never expected anything from me."

"And you were the only Master I ever had who showed me even a modicum of kindness."

Dorian smiles slightly, then asks, "Do you have a bottle of wine?"

Lavellan quirks an eyebrow. "On the sideboard."

Dorian hums and goes over, inspecting the bottle, then nods approvingly and pours two glasses of the rich red. He brings them back and hands one to Lavellan. "To the past and the future," he says. "And all that entails."

Lavellan raises his glass. "To shades of grey," he returns. They tap the rims of their glasses together, and they drink.

 

 _The mage bashes the last shade over its lumpy head with his stave, and then he turns, and Lavellan sees his face for the first time. The next breath he draws burns like acid and tastes like coming home, and he lets it out on a single word: "Dorian_."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are welcome as always. [Feel free to visit me on Tumblr, too!](http://motherfuckingnazgul.tumblr.com/)


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